ollowing pages will be devoted to Scandinavia, Russia, and Russian
Poland, this metropolis seems to be a proper locality at which to
begin the northern journey with the reader.

It was already nearly midnight when the Hotel D'Angleterre, fronting
upon the Kongens Nytorv, was reached. So long a period of
uninterrupted travel, night and day, rendered a few hours of quiet
sleep something to be gratefully appreciated. Early the next morning
the consciousness of being in a strange city, always so stimulating
to the observant traveller, sent us forth with curious eyes upon the
thoroughfares of the Danish capital before the average citizen was
awake. The importunities of couriers and local guides, who are always
on the watch for visitors, were at first sedulously ignored; for it
would be foolish to rob one's self of the great pleasure of a
preliminary stroll alone amid scenes and localities of which one is
blissfully ignorant. A cicerone will come into the programme later
on, and is a prime necessity at the proper time; but at the outset
there is a keen gratification and novelty in verifying or
contradicting preconceived ideas, by threading unattended a labyrinth
of mysterious streets and blind alleys, leading one knows not where,
and suddenly coming out upon some broad square or boulevard full of
unexpected palaces and grand public monuments.

It was thus that we wandered into the old Market Square where
Dietrick Slagheck, Archbishop of Lund and minister of Christian II.,
was burned alive. A slight stretch of the imagination made the place
still to smell of roasted bishop. "Is this also the land of wooden
shoes?" we asked ourself, as the rapid clatter of human feet upon the
pavements recalled the familiar street-echoes of Antwerp. How eagerly
the eye receives and retains each new impression under such
circumstances! How sharp it is to search out peculiarities of dress,
manners, architecture, modes of conveyance, the attractive display of
merchandise in shop-windows, and even the expression upon the faces
of men, women, and children! Children! if any one says the Danish
children are not pretty, you may with safety contradict him. Their
delicately rounded, fresh young faces are lit up by such bright,
turquoise-colored, forget-me-not blue eyes as appeal to the heart at
once. What a wholesome appetite followed upon this pioneer excursion,
when we entered at breakfast on a new series of observations while
satisfying the vigorous